Page 77 of Dark Soul

“I’m sorry, Nikolai. I’ve had a lot on my mind, but I’m with you now.” She picked up her copy of the book, as if holding it in her hands could make her focus. And a part of her shuddered, because perhaps they should have chosen a different book to read today, but that would have involved some explaining.

I’m sorry, Nikolai, we’re going to have to pick a happier book to read.

I’m not ready to read about human cruelty and savagery.

Instead, she took a deep breath. “What did you think about the book?”

Nikolai’s light gray eyes turned to her. He bit his lower lip for a second, then seemed to remember how much his father hated it when he did that and let go.

Alexia smiled encouragingly.

“I think,” the boy began carefully. “I think it’s all wrong.”

That seemed like a conventional enough thought on the novel.

“You mean, what the boys end up doing is wrong?”

“No.” Again, that quick bite of his lower lip. Alexia waited, giving the boy time to pull his thoughts together. “I think what the author—Golding—presents here, is all wrong. I think the characters are all … better … than he is giving them credit for. I don’t believe this is what they would become. I think they would work together and establish a different kind of society.”

Alexia swallowed hard.

How far the apple has fallen from the tree.

“I think that’s a very interesting thought, Nikolai. Maybe you could expand on that in this week’s essay.”

The boy nodded, diligently writing the task down in his little notebook.

“So. What would you like to do now?” It was nearly noon.

Nikolai looked out the window with longing.

“Let’s go out,” she said, suddenly inspired. “We can ask Mrs. Babanin to pack some lunch for us and eat it outside.”

“Really?” the boy asked.

“Really.”

* * *

In the end, they didn’t go very far.

She and Nikolai had walked up the hill, past several clumps of fancy chalets, towards a wide area of snow-covered grassland, and sat on a picnic blanket to eat the delicious food Mrs. Babanin had prepared for them—sandwiches, but also a typical Russian salad of fermented cucumbers, peeled hard-boiled eggs, and some kind of sweet semolina cake.

Alexia had offered Ilya some, but he’d refused the food, as usual, and stood watch from the edge of the field. She was pretty sure he hadn’t moved an inch in the entire hour they’d been here.

“I’m so full,” Nikolai said, patting his little belly. He still had a thoughtful look on his face, and Alexia wondered if he was still thinking about the book, and if she’d done the right thing by encouraging him to read it.

“Let’s make a snowman,” she said, getting up. It’d snowed the day before, so the snow was fresh and powdery—perfect for the job.

Alexia put on her gloves and began packing a tight ball of snow. Within seconds, Nikolai was there as well, helping her.

“Can we make a snow dog instead?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said thoughtfully. “We’ll need to make the legs solid, as a base.”

They worked together in silence, packing the first ball until it was roughly the size and shape of a thick animal leg.

Then something made her look up.